


Man of the Hour

by metropolisjournal (TKodami)



Series: Step Nine [2]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M, Pole Dancing, Undercover, strip club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7590712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TKodami/pseuds/metropolisjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark's gotten a lead on the middleman for organized crime in Gotham and Metropolis. Only problem is, Matches Malone appears to be something of a ghost...</p><p> <br/><em>Written for the dceu kinkmeme <a href="http://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=410323#cmt410323">prompt</a>: Matches Malone sleazing and hitting shamelessly on an uncomfortable, hapless Clark Kent who's undercover as a stripper (or something similar) because he's investigating a story.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Man of the Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to OP on the kinkmeme, I have written my first-ever Matches Malone fic. The entire fic from start to finish is an excuse for fanfic tropes, for which I kinda-sorta-apologize, but only kinda-sorta. IN CASE YOU ARE WONDERING, the song that Clark gives to the DJ: [Capsize by Big Black Delta](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4cEdfc2_YAs). Use that knowledge wisely!
> 
> This fic is a continuation to the story [Preventative Swindle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7417156), but can be read as a stand-alone.

* (M) *

The relationship between Matches Malone and organized crime in Gotham city was a long and complex one, owing to the sheer good fortune that Matches Malone was the only mobster left in Gotham who remembered the days before the Gotham PD built the bat signal. 

Matches Malone had never been a terribly ambitious man. Ask anyone who had worked the southside during the worst of Gotham's mob rule. Hell, ask any of the dancers at the Red Room. He was a gangster sure enough, but he never got his hands dirty with the gun-smuggling or the extortion rackets. He'd done time fifteen years back, but he'd come out of prison a changed man. His infamous temper had mellowed, and he eschewed his old enforcement gig on the docks for a cozier position with Sal Maroni. The cops had their hands full with violent offenders--one measly nonviolent felon never rated more than his scheduled parole visits. And the Bat? Well, word on the streets was Matches had luck to beat the Devil.

All and all, the generous turn-the-other-cheek attitude of the world had given Matches Malone the demeanor of a man who knew he was untouchable. Easy and affable.

It didn’t do Matches’ business no harm, either. On the third Friday of every month, he commandeered one of the Red Room’s knee-high table and velvet corner chairs and hooked eager up-and-comers into the machinery of Gotham’s underworld. Everyone remembered where they started, and a lot of people owed Matches a lot of favors.

If Matches looked like his hackles were always up, that was just his years on the street talking. Why Matches never spent more than one night a month in the Red Room, that was just Matches’ way.

This month’s run coincided with a pole dancing competition. The Red Room had begun hosting it to lure patrons more interested in the floor show than the lap dances. Normally competition nights were held on Saturdays, but a scheduling conflict had arisen with the Metropolis half of the league, the stars had aligned, or whatever. Matches didn’t like to speculate on civilian business. The competition bumped itself up to Matches’ usual evening of schmoozing, and he felt a touch wary. 

Matches wiped his hand across his steamed-up mirror. He combed a clean part through his slicked-back hair, and doused himself with enough Brut to choke a man. Flicking open a matchbook, he tore one out and shoved it between his lips. An appreciative sigh bubbled up, as his teeth bit into the cheap wood. 

Yeah. That was what he was missing.

He tipped _The Pompadour's_ doorman to not remember that he had left, if anyone was asking, and set out toward the Red Room at a lazy pace.

Pole dancing wasn’t his idea of fun, but one evening’s entertainment could hardly derail the well-oiled machinery of Matches’ routine.

* (C) *

Clark Kent tapped his pen against his desk as he ran his eyes over the small reporter’s notebook next to his screen. He surreptitiously checked his watch. Just another half-hour before he could reasonably call it a day at the Planet, and get started on the evening’s work. 

The story he had pitched to Perry had been aggressive in its scope. Corruption, laundering, rackets, the works: how the crime families in Metropolis relied on Gotham brokers to maintain a stranglehold in the poorer neighborhoods in both cities. People lived in fear on both sides of the bay. Good citizens who were suffering under the heel of this regime were counting on this article series to bust the inter-city crime ring wide open. Perry had agreed, on a probationary basis, and assigned the piece to him and Lois. 

(He’d even coined a snappy title for the confluence of Metropolis and Gotham connections. “The Rise of Motham,” Lois had gasped, barely holding in tears of laughter. Traitor. “Smallville, for the love of God, we’ll call it 'The Rise of Intergang', and enjoy our Pulitzer.”) 

They'd worked the gang piece together for two months, gathering information and interviewing sources. So why was the article still so _light_ on tangible details? 

Clark jotted down a few more sentences and read over what he’d added. 

_The strength of Gotham’s citizens against a gothic backdrop onto which the canvas of crime is painted..._

Oh _god_. He backspaced through the entire paragraph. The problem was, he simply didn’t have enough _story_. Rumor was, all of the Metropolis-Gotham connections were handled by one middleman, but none of their informants had any proof.

He checked his watch again. Ten minutes. 

Lois pushed her chair over into Clark’s space. “Clark, you okay?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t seen you this nervous since--” Lois pursed her lips. “Actually, ever. Smallville?” 

“I have a--” he didn’t want to say _lead_. That would perk Lois’ interest, and then she’d insist on accompanying him tonight. And after all of his boots-on-the-ground investigating on this side of the bay, and all of Lois’ footwork on the Gotham side, the name Matches Malone had slipped from one of his Metropolis contacts a month ago. Three weeks ago, he’d tracked him to the Red Room, a strip joint-turned upscale whisky (and pole dance) bar. The clientele of the were convinced that Matches glad-handed all across the Southside. A competent middleman would need to, to maintain his impressive array of criminal contacts. But Matches was a ghost. None of the other bars knew Matches except by reputation. He certainly didn't drink in any of them. And he didn’t talk to anyone without references, unless they were a--a _professional_. Clark felt giddy. Matches could very well be Intergang’s middle man.

“Want me to tag along?” Lois offered, when Clark didn't finish his sentence. 

A small twinge rose in Clark’s throat. No. Lois on tonight’s undercover beat was the last thing he needed. He settled on--“I have a date.” 

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. But his voice came out high, almost panicked, like it did when he was ten, and told Ma that Pete must have eaten the entire batch of _picellati_. Damnit. 

Lois smacked him in the shoulder with a handful of envelopes from Clark’s mailbasket. “Why didn’t you just say?” 

Clark muttered his reply. He didn’t like lying to Lois any more than he had to. 

“Clark, I’m not mad. We agreed, remember? Give ourselves a little bit of time to stretch our legs.” 

Genuine concern shone from Lois’ face, a small smile turning up the corner of her mouth. She tossed the mail back into the box, and placed her hands on his shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Smallville. She’ll love you.” 

She punctuated her statement with a gentle shake. Clark relented, and allowed himself to sway with the motion. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

Clark laughed mirthlessly. He decided a little truth couldn’t hurt right now. “It’s in Gotham.” (They say admitting it is the first step. It doesn’t feel like a step towards anything, right now.) “And not a _she_ ,” he added, and quashed the voice that wanted to say, _and also not a date_.

Lois chewed her lip thoughtfully, and gave him a good once-over, as though pieces were slotted into place. “You can’t avoid a whole city forever, Clark. Want to talk about _him_?” Her voice dropped into barely a whisper, weighted by anger and fury on Clark’s behalf. They both knew _him_ didn’t refer to his not-a-date.

“He’s not actively trying to kill me anymore, Lo.” Clark pinched the bridge of his nose, easing the glasses away from his face for a minute, before resettling them. “I think that’s the best we can hope for.” 

“Have you two...talked?” Lois ventured. 

“Does being ordered out of his city count?” Clark joked, his second lie for the evening. Well, good to get a head-start on half-truths--his work tonight depended on a little bit of subtlety, a little bit of tact, and a hell of a lot of quick thinking. To quell the kernel of guilt that was threatening to blossom into good ole fashioned remorse, he promised himself that he’d confess the plan to Lois afterward--when there was no chance of her _actually showing up_ at the Red Room. 

His watch beeped. It was time to pick up his outfit from a very discreet costumier on Washington. “Gotta go, or I’ll miss the ferry!” He said brightly, sliding the notebook with all of his research on Matches into his pocket. 

“Ferry, Smallville?” Lois said, a bit too sharply for Clark’s peace-of-mind.

“Yeah, Lo. I’m trying to get back into the swing of things. You know, doing things slow. Um… regular.” Lie number three! “Can’t always zip off just because I have a hot date,” he tried. 

He could feel Lois’ considering eyes on his retreating back. He could practically hear her scenting the air for the story behind his awkward enthusiasm. She knew him too well. Clark stuck to mass transit with traceable receipts when he was on Planet business, in case anyone ever dug into his investigation. There was no reason for Clark to follow those rules for something a simple as a date, unless… 

Clark may have super-sped out of the Daily Planet to make sure he didn’t have a tail. 

* (C) *

The ferry ride did him no favors. The extra forty minutes gave him time to brood. He walked up the stairs, and leaned against the railing as the sea-salt breeze ruffled his hair. The bite of the air stirred memories older than Superman into the froth of the weeks leading up to Doomsday. And then there was the _after_. 

The world’s attention had fallen disproportionately on the Superman’s return, and no one had commented on Clark Kent slipping back into his old life like a thief. Lois had been affectionate but distant, Perry had that _knowing_ look in his eyes, everyone else who had viewed Clark Kent’s body at his family home had been reassigned to foreign desks. Writing under the pen name Richard White hadn’t been the end of the world, either, as Perry and Lois worked out a good cover story for Clark to officially come back from the dead. 

In the distance, the Gotham skyline loomed.

He’d lied to Lois when he said he’d been ordered out. In fact, Batman’s exact words were _don’t break my city_. Two months, and they hadn’t talked again. Clark’s resurrection hung over them like a pall. Clark hadn’t known how to start that conversation, _so I’ve come back from the dead more than Jesus_ , or why he felt like calling and personally apologizing to Bruce when Superman’s one and only public appearance since his state funeral had involved weeping, a spontaneous prayer circle and the report of miraculously healed leprosy.

Clark Kent hadn’t even known that leprosy was still a _thing_. 

Clark hadn’t expected them to be friends, or to fight crime in matching leotards, but he had expected-- 

(On the night Clark had suited up to visit the Bat in Gotham, for a moment, Clark had heard sirens piercing the night, heard the squeal of the elevated train, the whooping call of owls, but all of those noises had fallen away. In the stillness, all Clark heard were the arteries in Bruce’s chest expanding. Blood rushed through every part of his chest, out to his capillaries, and back to his heart in a few dizzying beats. He had... blossomed. 

Clark had felt a little drunk on the richness of the sound. He may have let his enthusiasm show a little in his face.)

\--more than a brush-off. 

The ferry announced their arrival at the Gotham port. Clark clutched his messenger bag as he scrambled off the boat. 

The city curved around him. Gotham always looked different from the street. Her gothic spirals collided with clean glass modernism, a city half in the dark, half in the light. The whisper of her alleyways enfolded him with a kind of reckless abandon that he didn’t feel in Metropolis. His heart-rate picked up as Clark hailed a taxi, and directed the cabbie to take him to the Bowery. 

The club’s VIP manager had emphasized that Matches was rarely seen in the Red Room. Once a month, no more than that. And he almost never accepted company that wasn’t pre-arranged. Someone had to catch his eye. 

He had spent the last three weeks carefully preparing his cover in the Red Room, calling in favors with his contacts, until he’d found the right person--someone who Clark had helped after one of his articles had busted a rigged green card lottery. She had worked magic with a telephone, and managed to bump the Pole Dance competition to the appropriate Friday. It was up to Clark to sell the other half. The exercise annex across from his apartment hosted pole dance classes, and Clark watched them while he practiced on a pole he’d procured from a surplus warehouse. It felt seedy to do it that way, but secrecy was key to his plan. 

His fingers danced over the messenger bag. Inside was a tightly wrapped white garment box, a burner, his notebook, and a picture of his target. No identifying traces to tie Clark Kent to this operation. 

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Clark knew what was coming next. His body practically sang with it. He paid, and hiked the bag over his shoulder as he surveyed the Red Room. 

Three weeks of preparation, and he was not prepared. But all things considered, if it only took him a night to get what he needed, Clark would share the byline with Lois on the story of the year, and the Bat would never, ever need to know what Clark planned to do in his city. 

* (C) *

It was a warm summer night, and the city still had a few good hours of light left in it until the streets in the Bowery turned into a neon-drenched wonderland. Clark hustled his way down an alley to the Red Room’s side entrance--a nondescript door along a featureless wall. He stepped through into pandemonium. A blast of cold air hit his skin, and then the door clicked shut behind him. The backroom of the Red Room was overflowing. Women and men preened in front of mirrors, turning their faces this way and that, to check the integrity of their contouring. A man nearly took his arm off backing into Clark, but he stumbled back with just enough counter-force to give the impression he’d been knocked over.

Clark adjusted his glasses, and got a few apologetic, “don’t mind him, he’s an asshole,” from the ladies at the mirror. 

“Can I help you, honey?” One of the make-up stylists yelled over the crowd.

Clark raised his garment box overhead, pointed at it, then at himself.

“There are no changing rooms, but if you’re feeling shy, there’s a few empty corners in the hallway,” she shouted back, motioning toward a short, dark hallway with a spray bottle.

Clark ducked into an alcove, and undressed as quickly as he could. He’d gotten over the burn of embarrassment for changing in public after his first month as Superman, but he’d never striped out of his clothing this slowly where he could be seen. And never without the suit on underneath. He stripped down to the pair of extremely tight cyan-blue compression shorts he’d thrown on this morning, then wound the layers of gold filagree around his waist, and secured it with a few tiny safety pins. He pulled the single-piece bolero jacket and the false front (that was meant to look like a high-waisted corset, but would pull away with the jacket), with its intricate gold braiding and modern epaulets. 

The last piece of the costume was a Venetian macramé mask, finely worked with gold leaf and cultured pearls, that covered his whole face. The straps had been modified at his request to include a full mesh that slid over the back of his head. It covered nearly every identifying feature--his hair, his lips, his eyes. 

Clark wasn’t ready for it yet, so he held the mask loosely in his hands as he elbowed his way through those still wriggling into their skin-tight costumes to reach the curtain that separated the room from the side of the stage. Phaedra, the VIP manager drummed her fingers on the clipboard. They had talked on the phone, but he had never met her in person. He wasn’t surprised that she barely looked at him, her attention on the commotion behind him.

“Name?” She barked, when Clark opened his mouth to ask her a question.

“Clark--”

“Stage name,” she corrected less harshly. 

“I’m not a regular to these kinds of things, sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t have one.”

“All else fails, go with--” She glanced over at Clark, who was not wearing his glasses. “Your eyes are--” she sucked in a surprised breath, and Clark held his. Had she recognized him, he thought frantically, had she recognized Superman? Phaedra blinked and shook her head slightly, as if she was dismissing a crazy idea. “Ohhhh, you’re going to be a hit tonight.” 

Clark blushed. “Afraid I’ll be performing in a mask.” He lifted the mask just a fraction.

“Their loss,” she said sincerely. “How about Azure?” 

Clark nodded his assent, and she jotted it down. Her head rose again, and she prompted, “song choice and length?”

“Oh, um. ‘Capsize,’ Five minutes.”

“Great. Give your song to the DJ, and you’re set. _Azure_ will be up third.” 

“Excuse me,” Clark tried again. “I don’t remember if you recall, we spoke on the phone a few weeks ago about a particular patron--Matches Malone?” 

"Yeah, you’re the one interested in Matches?” Her gaze grew evaluative. “Stingy on the drinks, but obliging. _Very_ selective. That's him, table 3."

Phaedra blocked his path with the clipboard. “Matches doesn’t ever go in for the dark-haired ones. Don’t be disappointed if he says no.”

“I just wanted to say that I’m a--fan.” Clark forced himself to laugh something light and airy, something that someone who didn’t expect to get shot down would laugh, and he slid the mask over his face. Phaedra returned his grin, like they were in on a great joke together.

“Be sure to be back in the wings in twenty minutes,” she said, and turned to the next contestant who had finished putting themselves together. 

No retreating now, Clark reminded himself, and drew back the velvet curtain.

* (C) *

The Red Room’s clientele was in transition between the old guard, who’d moved over from the tittybars and the strip joints that had shut down as the Bowery gentrified, and trendier young professionals who came in singles and pairs to unwind after a hard week of treading water in Gotham’s volatile business scene. Gotham was perennially playing catch-up, based on the whims and trends of its sister city, and Clark remembered this week the stock market had taken a beating as LexCorp and Wayne Enterprises were both forced to back out of a massive government contract due to accounting irregularities. The Red Room was fuller than usual (though Clark only knew this through second-hand accounts), and not a single table was empty.

Table 3, toward the center of the main club floor, was currently occupied by Matches Malone. Clark didn’t need to pull out the picture he’d left with his messenger bag to know it was him. The man looked like a two-legged hurricane of bad taste.

A bit of flirting with the county clerk had netted Clark a DMV photo where Matches leered at the camera in a pinstripe jacket, Hawaiian shirt, and thick aviators. 

Matches Malone’s current get-up was hardly better. He was dressed in a purple satin button-up, a leather jacket that was a size too small, tight black jeans. The top buttons showed off a chest that glinted with an odd material, not skin, but it sure _looked_ like skin. Two thick gold chains hung around his neck, a small cross hiding behind the ostentatious jewelry. He chewed the end of a matchstick, rolling it side-to-side with his teeth, caressing it with his tongue. One of his arms hung over the back of the low velvet chairs, tense despite the studied carelessness of the man’s pose. 

Clark knew next to nothing about who Matches Malone actually was. The man had no credit cards in his name. No rental history. No address. No email address. No data plan. He wasn’t so much as tagged in a person’s instagram. In short: Matches Malone had nothing that made him a person by any modern definition of the word.

He knew two things for sure about the man: he drank Dewar’s & soda, and he had the focus of a hawk. From the moment Clark stepped out from the side entrance, Matches eyes never left him. 

Another man sat at Matches’ table, heavyset, in his 50s, with similarly slicked-back hair. They laughed and touched glasses. Clark listened, wondering if he could actually be that lucky; would Matches discuss business openly? Clark’s hopes dimmed when he realized they were exchanging tips on the track. 

Then they both stood, Matches slapped the other man on the back, and he was alone. Matches slammed back the whiskey & soda, and tracked Clark the remaining few feet as he came up to the knee-high table. 

Matches watched him across the table. 

Oversized mirrored aviators covered the upper half of his face. A thin Clark Gable mustache with two days of stubble transformed his face into something uncanny. The dappled gray hair at his temples--he felt the familiarity/unfamiliarity of the face thrum through his mind, and he tried not to think about it too closely. 

“You, ah, look lik’a strip-a-gram matador,” was the first real thing Matches said to Clark. The accent was a surprise. Mid-century Gotham, like something you’d hear in gangster flicks, thick and grating. 

Clark ignored the jibe. “Lucky me,” he said cheekily, “that’s the look I was going for.” 

Matches throat bobbed, and he rolled the match to the other side of his mouth. 

“Sorry kid, I'm _not_ entertainin’ this evenin’.” 

Clark’s face flushed behind the mask, but he stood his ground. He either needed Matches to agree to meet him later, or he needed to be sure that he’d made enough of an impression, that after the competition Clark could approach him again with better results.

He angled his body so the bolero jacket fell open, showing a hint of his collarbone and his pecs as he shrugged. His body had a strange way of catching and holding the light, one of the smaller perks of storing energy like a solar battery. The shadows slid over him like honey.

“Sure I’m younger than you?” Clark tried to make it sound like something other than genuine curiosity, and failed. In his three weeks of planning, why, why hadn’t he practiced flirting?

He pulled the match out of his mouth and stared at it for a moment, before he let his tongue claim it off his palm. “Kid, at my age, you ain’t dressin’ up in masks and throwing yourself at strange men,” was the response, when it came at last.

“Go on,” Matches bit out, as he settled himself on the low-backed corner chair, the satin button-up rippling over his body, pulling across his torso.

“If you change your mind--”

“Talk to Phaedra, I know the routine,” Matches said, waving his hand in a clear dismissal, as he looked past Clark to another table--perhaps at another potential client.

“Mr. Malone.” Clark nodded at him, and slid himself out of Matches’ space.

Shot down. It wasn’t a setback; it just meant that he had to commit to the dance competition. At least part one of the plan was complete: he had made contact with his target, and he knew Clark was interested. As he wound his way towards the DJ booth to deliver his song for the competition’s queue, Clark wondered why he hadn’t bothered to give Matches his name. 

* (M) *

Dewar’s whiskey had no kick to it. Mix it with soda, and it barely tipped you past sober. Matches preferred something stronger, but the Red Room required his concentration. As Maroni’s man on the street, he was exposed when he conducted business in the open. Sure he’d led a charmed life, with neither hide nor hair of the Bat onto his operation, but rival mobs had been known to feel umbrage at Matches Malone making deals in their territory. So he sucked down amber-colored soda water, and made nice with the local establishment. Kept his head down, tipped well, and made himself as likeable as an aging hometown boy could be. 

A server passed Matches a new drink, and made a weak joke to get his attention. With his mouth closed, the boy was almost pretty, but he had dark hair and a clean-cut jaw. Matches didn’t have a type. He liked them red-headed, or blond, or with corn-rows--anything but boy scouts. He gave the server a slow but dim smile, like he didn’t know or didn’t care about what he was offering.

The server caught the message, and left without kicking up a fuss. 

Boy scouts. Christ.

Matches adjusted himself discreetly. 

The masked kid, now, he’d been interesting. He’d pushed into Matches space without an invitation, and he’d _stayed there_ until he’d said his piece. He looked ridiculous in the gold braided bull-charming get-up. Hadn’t even dropped his name. Like whatever word would have tumbled out of his mouth, it would have meant nothing. 

Matches said he wasn’t entertaining tonight, and that had been true at the time. But, well, maybe tonight he needed it. 

(The personal calculus Matches used for _need_ felt obscure, but definitive. Matches only took what he was offered, and he always paid for it. A man in Gotham had to have a code, or he had nothing.) 

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight lit up the stage. The pole dance competition began.  
Matches finished the highball, leaving the new one untouched. He watched the first two dancers with an abstract curiosity that felt strange to Matches, but familiar to a deeper part of himself.

He almost missed the announcer’s, “--pleasure to introduce you to Metropolis’ newest sensation, Azure!” 

The sound of a lone percussion came up as the dancer stepped lightly into the spotlight, between the two poles. He hovered at the edge of the light, movements precise but jerky, like a gaudy, nervous hummingbird. The light caught on all of the gold filigree, rippling over his toned physique. Suddenly, the jacket didn’t seem so ridiculous to Matches. 

Then the bass kicked in, and with a clean shrug of his shoulders, his jacket was off, and around the back of his arms, pinning them together. He vaulted himself backwards into a handstand, and wrapped his legs around the bar to pull himself in an arc against it. The matador jacket fluttered to the stage.

 _You move forward, I move backwards_  
_And together we make nothing at all..._

The routine began in earnest, Azure’s body flexing against the pole as he swung himself around it in a pirouette. He landed soundlessly. Matches felt more than saw Azure’s head swivel towards his table.

(Surely the kid couldn’t see through the spotlight.)

Azure swung himself back up onto the pole with only his upper body, as though he was more comfortable in the air than on the ground. With a deftness of movement that would make an Olympic gymnast weep, the kid wove a complicated pattern around the bar with a steady gyration of his hips. 

Matches swallowed roughly, and reached for the second glass.

When Azure darted between the two bars, turning his torso in mid-air, Matches mouth dried up. He took a rough swig of whiskey. 

That effortless half-turn, his arms moving down his side, the impossible weightlessness of his body. 

He had seen that turn before. He had studied it. 

_Me and my song_  
_We’ll do it alone_

Azure pulled himself into a tight spin, arching his back, walking off the bar on his hands. 

The song faded into a long outro, and in a study of contrasts, Azure’s smoothness in the air faded into another bird-like paces on the ground, as he tested the boundaries of the spotlight, never leaving the light, but never finding home within it either. 

“Azure, ladies and gentlemen!” 

The crowd gave up wild applause, and Matches set the now-empty glass on the table.

Azure wasn’t your average pole dancer, then. He was one of them--what was the pundits calling them, metas. Metahumans. In his city. 

He had a problem on his hands, one he hadn’t been aware of coming. He wasn’t the type to have plans inside of plans. Matches barely could juggle the moving parts of Maroni’s organization without facetime with the head honcho himself. 

But something dark and terrified in him told him that Matches Malone was the right tool for _this_ job. Matches swallowed heavily, and threw a tip down on the table. He’d need to cancel the rest of his meets. He didn’t know why, exactly--but he knew that his life depended on hustling Azure out of the city. 

* (M) *

On his feet before the applause had died away, Matches worked his way through the crowd to the side-entrance he’d seen Azure take a half-hour ago. The VIP floor manager held her clipboard in front of Matches like a shield, and shook her head no. 

“So how much he pay you to give everybody the slip?” Matches said, his voice rougher than he’d expected. 

“Nothing,” Phaedra replied. When Matches took that as an invitation to head backstage, she inserted herself bodily between him and the curtained-off doorway. “Off-limits except for contestants, Matches. You know that.” 

Matches held his hands up, and backed off with a conciliatory grin. “Hey, fair's fair. Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Phaedra slapped his chest with the clipboard. “Behave.” 

“I’ll play nice,” he replied, with too many teeth in his smile. “I just want to get to know him better.”

Phaedra glanced down at the phone in her other hand, and typed in something too fast for him to decipher. The phone pinged back a few seconds later. “What’ll you pay to get me to introduce you two?” she asked at last. Matches slipped five hundred out of a small pocket inside of his button up and held it between two fingers. 

Phaedra swiped the cash, and tucked it into her own shirt. “This ain’t like you Matches. No one’d accuse you of bein’ smart, Matches, but you’re normally smarter than this.” 

“Lecture me later, sweetheart.” 

“Room Eight. He’ll be there in ten minutes,” she thwacked his chest again with the clipboard. “If I hear you been anything less than a complete gentleman, you’re through here. Nod so I can let you through.”

Matches nodded, and followed Phaedra’s instructions. He sat down in Room Eight, his heart racing. Good. He had ten minutes to get himself under control. He reached back into that dark place, and recalled a Nepalese meditative chant. Matches closed his eyes. The Bat opened his eyes, and waited. 

* (C) *

_Room Eight, 10 minutes. Don’t let him get fresh w/ you w/out paying first. Phae._

“You’re mine,” Clark murmured as he tapped over to the audio record app, and slid the phone back into his messenger bag. He hadn’t expected Matches to crack so quickly. He’d had a whole second pitch planned out after the routine, a little bit flirty, and a little bit business. 

Clark threw on a second shirt, something loose and silky. It was black with silver filigree, and clashed with his blue-and-gold skin-tight pants, but Matches was already on the hook. He pondered removing the mask, but, no, he’d introduced himself in the mask. It stayed on, for now.

One of the make-up artists pointed him toward the right hallway for the Champagne Rooms. Room Eight sat at the end of the corridor, and Clark noted, had a lock on it. He eased the door open. Inside, another velvet curtain bisected the room. There were two poles next to each other in the center of the room. A strong spotlight hit the area behind the curtain, so Clark could see the dark silhouette of a long chaise lounge, and a man sitting in it, facing the wall. Clark listened. The man’s heart was a bit elevated, but otherwise steady, like he did this everyday. 

Maybe Matches did. 

As he parted the curtain, Clark struck up what he hoped was a flirty tone. “So, come here often?”

Matches’ head whipped around, clearly startled, but his heart thrummed at a steady pace. For a moment, he seemed gobsmacked. Then something relaxed in his face, and Matches gave Clark a slow, brilliant smile--all liquid promise and glossy planes of his lips. He shoved a match between those lips, and ran his tongue over the top of it.

Frustratingly, the aviators were still on. On principle, Clark disliked looking behind people’s masks. He’d done it once before and he still felt a lingering sense of guilt over that breach of privacy. It felt like penance to let Matches have his mask.

“I normally don’t have time for foreplay,” Matches drawled back, as he stood, and eased himself into Clark’s space. Matches’ eyebrow raised as he saw the messenger bag clutched in Clark’s hand. “Did you bring toys?” 

“Um,” Clark responded eloquently. This was not the tenor of the conversation he’d expected at all. He’d asked Phaedra to direct him to a place where he and Matches could _talk_. He wanted to interview Matches, officially or unofficially. 

He pushed nervously at the macrame craquelure. Clark never understood how Batman could wear the mask; he felt so exposed under the confining surface. He narrowly avoided Matches questing hand, and moved himself and the bag over to the chaise lounge.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Clark began, every inch of him aware at _how close_ Matches was, standing over him. He needed to get this conversation back on track. 

“I’d like to see a whole lot more of you,” Matches purred, his fingers ghosting over the edge of mask. Clark shivered with it. The fine pressure against Clark’s skin felt excruciatingly intimate.

Clark’s hands came up, and rested over Matches’ for a minute before he forced his touch off of the mask. Matches breath hitched, so quick that Clark might not have heard if he hadn’t been listening for the reaction. The feeling of uncanniness returned, and Clark couldn’t quite shake it this time.

“Strong grip there, compadre,” Matches said blandly. 

“The mask stays on.” In his head, the tone had been firm. In practice, his voice had broken on _stays_. 

“Afraid, kid?” Matches eased himself down on the seat next to Clark, oozing into Clark’s space. He brought his leg into contact with Clark’s bare leg in a slow, dirty rub. 

“Shy,” Clark croaked, after he’d swallowed down the lump in his throat. He yanked his leg away from Matches, but Matches was not the type to color within the lines, and every inch Clark gave him, Matches spread that much further into his personal space. 

He hadn’t been this embarrassed since high school, and he just knew that his blush extended down to his chest. Matches appeared to be casually indifferent to Clark’s distress, and that should have rang an alarm bell in Clark’s mind, but he’d been ignoring just _how familiar_ this boundary-crossing felt. 

“Just wanna get to know you better.” Matches wet his lips. 

Clark saw his plan derail in slow-motion. This interview was going so, so wrong. He should cut his losses now, head home, try again another day in a completely _professional_ setting…

But Clark was nothing if not stubborn. “Phaedra said--” 

“Right, business first, then pleasure. What’ll it be?”

Clark tried to buy time. “Pardon me?”

“This ain’t a vice sting, is it?” Matches spread his arms out to sprawl across the back of the chaise lounge. His posture was entirely unconcerned, but his eyes remained sharp on Clark. His easiness felt vaguely pornographic compared to Clark’s awkward fumbling. “What are you willing to do, and for how much? Gimme some numbers.”

Okay. Matches may have been calm, but Clark’s heart raced in his chest. He was on dangerous ground. He’d prepared himself with some numbers, some plausible pitches to convince Matches that he didn’t want to afford what Clark was offering. 

“Two--thousand?” Clark stammered. Smooth, Clark. He tried for the most unappealing scenario, something a man like Matches would say no to. “Light touching only, above the waist.” 

Matches lip jutted out, and he honest-to-God _pouted_. It should look ridiculous on a man his age, but Clark found it weirdly captivating. If he overlooked nearly every other aspect of his person (his ingratiating smile that seems too knowing to be friendly, the way his eyes turn sharp and give you the feeling of being _pinned_ , the obnoxious haze of Brut that hangs around his shoulders like a cape), Matches could be described as having an endearing kind of charm. 

He dipped into his shiny satin shirt, and withdrew a stack of hundreds. He counted out the money, and held it out between his index and middle finger.

“How much of yer time, kid?”

“Ten minutes?” Clark said, his stomach sinking. 

Matches was _going for it_. 

Clark had no contingency for this. 

Matches wet his lips again, and reached for his phone. He punched in ten minutes, and set the timer.

“So you don’t feel cheated,” Matches murmured. 

“Okay,” Clark said. Clark brought his hands up to Matches chest, moving through space a nano-second at a time. He was not okay. “Okay,” he repeated. He was breathing through his nose, which just brought a fresh wave of Matches too-strong cologne, and triggered a spiraling sense of panic. 

“Shhhh, sweetheart,” Matches murmured, soothing Clark, but not backing off either. “Shhhh. Don’t be afraid.” 

Clark’s fingers ghosted feather-light across the open V of Matches’ shirt. His fingers slid across that strange material that wasn’t skin. Matches heart-rate bumped up a tick, then settled. 

“What is this,” Clark whispered. Matches looked down, thinking Clark had meant the jewelry. 

“Reminds me of my roots," Matches said. "Man's gotta have a history, or he has nothing.”

“No I mean--” Clark started, gesturing at the strange skin-colored fabric, then thought better of it. Perfect technique so far, Clark. “Nevermind. Do you.” He could get this out. He could. “Want to touch me?”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Matches grunted. His eyebrows knit together. “Do ya _want_ me to?”

Clark may have imagined the emphasis on _want_ , as though Matches couldn’t believe that anyone of their own free will would actually desire him. 

“Is that so hard to believe?” Clark demanded, a defensive need to justify his request warring with his better sense, because, no, he probably did not want more of Matches on him. Probably.

A wan chuckle. “If ya knew me, it would be.” 

The bleakness in Matches’ voice touched off a wildfire in Clark’s mind. The present collided with the past, and he felt a powerful surge of emotion. Clark, for his part, should have admitted to himself that he had a type before he’d taken money to touch a near-stranger, because he was completely unprepared to be bowled over by lust. Especially lust for this man, who had done his utmost to repel Clark at every turn. 

Yep. He definitely had a type.

The alarm triggered, and Clark pulled back heavily. 

“What do you want?” Clark mumbled, his mouth clumsy. 

Matches’ head hit the back of the chaise lounge with a thunk, an unvoiced groan vibrating in his throat. 

“I need ya out of my city, kid.”

* (M) *

To his credit, the meta-whatzit didn’t move a muscle. Neither did Matches. He couldn’t watch this, didn’t want to watch this. His eyes slid shut.

“What?” the kid said, finally, somewhere close to his elbow. 

“Listen, kid, yer sweet but I need ya outta my city. I got business to transact, and can’t do if yer here. I’m meeting with the big boss tonight. He’s not happy yer here.”

Another long silence. 

When the kid spoke again, he was all business. “Mr. Malone, I’m a private investigator.” 

Matches snorted, didn’t even feel the desire to make a bad pun. “You're more than that.” He licked his lips. “You’re the flying one, the meta-whatzit.”

“Metahuman,” the voice corrected faintly. 

“Yeah, that.”

“An interesting theory, Mr. Malone.” The kid’s voice didn’t so much as shake. “Are you telling me that you’re meeting with Sal Maroni tonight?”

“You don’t get how this city works.” Because Matches was fairly certain on this point. The kid _hadn't understood_ Gotham the last time he was here, and he'd... run into some trouble because of it.

“Then enlighten me, Mr. Malone.” 

“There’s only one boss,” Matches heard himself saying. He pulled the matchstick out. It suddenly felt like a silly affectation. Disgusted, he flicked it across the room. “ _The_ big boss. No business happens in this city without his fingerprints on it. Industrial, financial, medical, bio-technology. It’s his word that makes this city ‘go round.”

“What's his name, Matches.” The kid could sound authoritative when he wanted to. He'd heard this tone once before, in the port of Gotham. Which was odd to Matches, because he hadn't been down portside for years now...

“You don't need his name, sweetheart, it's on every goddamn building worth owning.”

The kid's breath caught. Yeah. He hadn't seen that one coming.

“And listen, kid, he’s pissed. At me, mostly, right now.” Matches really should shut up, but once he started talking, everything just spilled out, because--because that's the kind of man Matches was. “For bein’ here with you. Thinking of writing a little exposé? It won’t even touch him. The big boss has outlasted all of the crime families in this city, he’ll be here long after I’m no longer needed. He’s in the blood of this city. If you haven’t understood that by now, you’ll never understand Gotham.”

Matches knew he’d said too much, then, because he felt a hot breath on the shell of his ear. “Your accent is slipping,” the kid said, the _heat_ spilling off of him, so completely alive. 

The heart lurched in his chest--Matches was totally gone.

“What do you want?” he croaked, echoing the kid’s question from minutes ago.

At least he wasn’t the only one; the kid’s voice shook. “Ten more minutes.” 

“Yeah,” Matches said slowly. “Yeah, alright, kid. Ten more minutes.” 

* (C) *

There was no mistaking that heartbeat now, as Clark set the phone for another ten minutes. His fingers shook, and it took him three tries to type the right numbers. He turned back to--he couldn’t think of him as anyone but Matches, right now. Clark’s thigh was pressed up against the side of Matches’ leg. 

“What are the ground rules?” he asked with a courage he didn’t feel.

“Take off the mask, sweetheart,” Matches said. 

“You do it,” Clark said. “Glasses come off,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Matches’ fingers slid up behind his head, and under the lip of the mask. He tipped it off of Clark’s face. Then he yanked the aviators off with no finesse. Matches dragged his eyes over Clark, lingering on the lack of any sort of privacy the tight shorts gave him, then jumping right back up to his face. The once-over felt dirtier than a hand shoved down his pants. Clark flushed, and the color spread down his throat. 

“Better?” Matches asked. 

“Better,” Clark confirmed. His mind frantically jabbered that this was the _opposite_ of better, the very definition of disaster, but the crushing loneliness of the past months had caught up to him in the moment. 

“What next kid. These are your ten minutes.” Clark finally took a good, long look at him with all of the pieces (almost) fitting together. Clark’s fingers hovered over the jaw of Bruce Wayne, saw Bruce Wayne’s blown pupils, heard the pumping vessel of his heart. Yet it was Matches who spread his arms, and drawled: “I’m all yours.”

Clark thought about letting him have a piece of his mind, or just walking out on him. 

His body refused to move from the chaise lounge. He’d had _nothing_ from the man he’d wanted it from, so if he had to take it from Matches, he would. 

Clark moved his hand up and down, petting Matches’ side through his satin shirt. Matches shuttered under that touch.

“Kid--” Matches tried. 

“I know you, Mr. Malone,” Clark said quietly, rucking up Matches' shirt, and feeling bold for it.

“Yeah?” 

“Matches Malone, 45. Worked the Gotham docks for the protection rackets. Four years in lockup on an attempted manslaughter charge. Some wiseguy had gone after his sister’s kid. He put ‘em in the hospital.” 

Matches Malone went still under his hands. “Done worse than that, kid. This week, probably.” 

Clark felt brash as he stroked up Matches' chest. Through the strange material, he felt a puzzle of scars. He continued:

“He never lays a hand on a dancer, and he always pays the house rate per song when he sits at the stage. Which he rarely does. Table 3’s his. He drinks nothing but Dewar's 12 year. The club keeps it in the stockroom even though there isn't much call for it from the other patrons.” 

“Sounds like a man who’s got bad taste,” Matches grit out against some unexpected emotion. 

“Here’s the funny thing,” Clark whispered, his voice caressing the shell of Matches’ ear. “He’s only seen in the Red Room once a month. No one else carries Dewar's in a five mile radius. Does Matches only drink in the Red Room? What can Matches Malone possibly do with all of his free time?” 

Matches bucked his head back. 

“And he may have something of a detective kink,” Clark added. 

The alarm triggered, but neither Clark nor Matches moved to turn it off. It beeped angrily and shut itself off, after a time. 

“C’mere,” Matches rasped, and Clark climbed into his lap. 

Plausible deniability flew out the window as Clark wiggled his ass across Matches’ very stiff erection, trapped under denim. They both groaned. Clark rolled his hips, and Matches bucked up roughly against him. 

“Son,” he panted, that sent Clark’s heart racing. “You were--supposed--to say _no_ ,” Bruce said with Matches’ voice, a small not-smile turning down his mouth. The effect was altogether too handsome. “Mary Mother of Jesus, what am I going to do with you?”

“Anything you want to,” Clark whispered.

“Ground rules?” Bruce bit out.

“Take off your pants. We'll figure it out from there.”

Clark wasn't entirely sure who smiled up at him, wolfish and eager, but he figured it didn't really matter tonight. Clark was tugged down, viciously, his mouth captured in a kiss. All of Clark's plans were finished, and the hell he'd have to pay was still minutes, hours, days away. Right now there was his urgent need, and he gave in to it.

“Oh _Azure_ ,” Bruce simpered, when it became clear that Clark's attention was elsewhere.

“Call me anything but Clark, and I'll drop you in the bay,” he returned hotly.

Later, when Bruce cried out _Clark_ as they moved against each other (once and sharp, dragged out of him like a gut-punch), it felt almost perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge, big thank you to the OP for posting the prompt, and for the helpful nonnies on fail-fandomanon who helped me work out some excellent headcanons for Affleck!Matches. The fun on the [dceu kinkmeme](http://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/) continues. Come, leave a prompt, take a prompt, join in the fun! c:


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